I was on my way to court. I had been subpoenaed to bring a large black

dog to a hearing. The subpoena had perplexed me somewhat because I had no connection with the dog or with the case. But here I was, walking down a busy street, with a large black dog I had never seen before. At first I had been walking with the dog on a leash; but then I had snapped off the leash and allowed the dog to run free with me. I might have made a mistake because the dog was ranging
20-30 meters from me, approaching other dogs being walked on leashes, and generally refusing to heed my calls to return to me. Finally, however, as we passed by a vacant lot, the dog returned to me and I quickly grabbed and hugged him, snapping the leash back onto his collar.

At the same time, two heavy-coated old gentlemen stepped up and watched me. From their keen interest in the dog, I surmised that they recognized the dog and I asked them if I were correct. They affirmed my suspicions and they told me that the dog should be kept on a leash because he had a tendency to dig up people's gardens. Anxious to know more about the dog (and hopefully about the trial) I probed further; a conversation ensued in which I gleaned new information about the case. Most importantly, the two gentlemen told me they were the defendants in the case. When I asked the nature of the case, one of them enigmatically replied, "Scrap-metal."

I asked what they meant by this, but they seemed reluctant to say more. It sounded to me as if criminal charges had been filed against them for something to do with scrap-metal; but it looked as if I would have to wait until I was in court to learn the name of the specific charge.

As the men had talked, I had noticed that they both had very distinct accents. I thought they must be immigrants. I was uncertain what city we were in, but thought we were either in New York City or a city on the coast of New Jersey. Since the men might be in their
80s, I had nostalgic visions of their coming to America in the early part of the 1900s, in the wave of immigrants who flocked to America in those romantic years. What stories these two ancients must guard. I softly asked, "Are you immigrants?"

At once I knew I had gone too far; the men were now obviously disinclined to proceed with the conversation. Was it because of the court case? I
didn't know; but they both quickly took their leave, unwilling to give me their immigrant status.

I also turned to resume my course. But now a fascinating sight presented itself. A side street to my left opened onto a most captivating vista. Instead of concrete, the street was made of water. Even so, hundreds of people were crowded onto the liquid street. They were all moving along on some kind of devices – some looked like skateboards, others like roller skates – expertly floating over the surface of the street. All the people seemed to be oriental – perhaps Chinese – and colorful banners and signs with Chinese writing hung from the windows and walls which lined the street. Deep at the far end of the street stood blazing oriental buildings – perhaps even a palace. Could this be Chinatown? I wished I could join the others on the watery street. I could just imagine myself trying to master the floatation device, trying to keep my balance. But what about the dog?